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C£PKRIGHT DEPOSIT 



A WREATH 
FOR 
EDWIN 
MARKHAM 



Qi M4eathjor odwin G^arriham 

\7rioutesjrom the z/oets a/Qi77ierlca 

on his (Seventieth ^Birthday 

Q/lpril 23, 1922 




^^ Chicago 
Wfoe y^ookfellozvs 

1922 



Three hundred copies of this first edition have 
been printed in the month of September, 1922 



yk 






^ 



Copyright J922 
by Flora Warren Seymour 



THE TORCH PRESS 

CEDAR RAPIDS 

IOWA 



OCT 27*22 

©CI.A686523 



> r V\ 



FOREWORD 

Edwin Markham, Bookfellow No. 56, spent his seven- 
tieth birthday at Bookfellow Lodge in Chicago, upon 
which occasion were read the poetic tributes here pre- 
sented. They represent the respect and love of the poets 
of America for the author of one of the world's great 
poems, as well for his noble character as for his high 
achievement, and this book is published by THE BOOK- 
FELLOWS as a fitting memorial to a dear and worthy com- 
rade. It was done by all the co-producers with great 
good-will and so will be received by lovers of poetry and 
high endeavor the world over. 

The portrait-profile of Mr. Markham was drawn for 
this book by Earl H. Reed, Bookfellow No. 2173. Let- 
tering on the title-page and cover is by Will Ransom, 
Bookfellow No. 1500. 

The poetic tributes are by 

Wallace Bruce Amsbary Mary Tarver Carroll 

Bertha Avery Josephine Craven Chandler 

Claribel Weeks Avery Thomas Curtis Clark 

Faith Baldwin Edmund Vance Cooke 

William E. Barton Helen Gray Cone 

Ruth Bassett Elizabeth Crighton 

Katharine Lee Bates Miles M. Dawson 

Charles G. Blanden Babette Deutsch 

Louis James Block Nathan Haskell Dole 

William Stanley Braithwaite D. J. Donovan 

Pauline Florence Brower Henry Dumont 

Witter Bynner Walter Pritchard Eaton 






Charles Farwell Edson 

Ethel Feuerlicht 

Sara Bard Field 

Joseph Andrew Galahad 

Zona Gale 

Louise Ayres Garnett 

Theodosia Garrison 

Clifford Franklin Gessler 

William Griffith 

Hazel Hall 

Joseph Mills Hanson 

Idella Janes Harrison 

M. V. P. Hazelton 

Hildegarde Hawthorne 

Rebecca Helman 

E. Sewell Hill 

David Irving Janes 

Father Jerome 

Josephine Johnson 

John Kearns 

Richard R. Kirk 

A Lady of Eighty 

Mary Sinton Leitch 

Orville Leonard 

Edwin Carlile Litsey 

Elizabeth Mac Veagh 

Anna Catherine Markham 

Minna Mathison 

Virginia Taylor McCormick 

J. Corson Miller 



John R. Moreland 

Jean Palmer Nye 

Emma Kenyon Parrish 

Antoinette DeCourcey Patterson 

Elia W. Peattie 

Marie Tello Phillips 

Clara Catherine Prince 

Aurelia Henry Reinhardt 

Edwin Arlington Robinson 

John Jerome Rooney 

James Rorty 

Lew Sarett 

Whitelaw Saunders 

Emma Playter Seabury 

George Steele Seymour 

Jay G. Sigmund 

Marion Couthouy Smith 

Myrtella Southerland 

Anne Higginson Spicer 

Vincent Starrett 

George Sterling 

Charles Hanson Towne 

Albert Edmund Trombly 

Anna Spencer Twitchell 

Blanche Shoemaker Wagstaff 

Charles R. Wakeley 

Lydia Avery Coonley Ward 

Owen P. White 

William Thornton Whitsett 

Charles Erskine Scott Wood 

Clement Wood 



AD EDWINUM MARKHAM 

EDWINUM laeto colimus hac die 
Ejusque excelsos canimus canores — 
Tempora cingant rutilisque sertis 

EDWINUM MARKHAM. 



Fr. Jerome 



A WREATH FOR EDWIN MARKHAM 



FROM HIS NATIVE STATE 

Here is a hail from Oregon — 
The land where your eyes first saw the sun. 
Wherever you go till your race is run 
There'll be always a hail — from Oregon! 

— Joseph Andrew Galahad 

Greetings from distant Oregon — 
Where mists are colored with the sun; 
Whose pride is great, and justly great, 
In you, her Poet Laureate! 

— Hazel Hall 



FROM THE GOLDEN WEST 

Homer's head and Milton's art 
Shelley's soul and Lincoln's heart! 
Wind and water, earth and sky, 
Bless the good man passing by! 

— George Sterling 



Now in that church of souls you willed 
The candles waver and the chants are stilled — 
And yet your brave expectancy will smile 
Hearing dream Brotherhoods that sing in file. 

— James Rorty 



Somewhere you learned that beauty is love 
And somehow you fashioned the secret in art. 

O Poet, yours is the priesthood that serves 

The altar of Beauty with flame from the heart. 

— Sara Bard Field 



Old Man, — I, an old man, hasten here to greet you 
To place a willow and a laurel on your brow — 

You shall live on and Death can not defeat you, 

You, who know the sweat of those that hoe and plough. 
— Charles Erskine Scott Wood 



Songbirds in one fair April weather, 
Green hills with the poppies aflame, 

And sea-breezes hurrying eastward, 
Thee, Poet and Brother acclaim. 

— Aurelia Henry Reinhardt 

16 



Why should he dread the years which but endow 
With mellow beauty all the gracious whole — 

Which do but add a luster to his brow 
And inches to the stature of his soul! 

— Anna Spencer Twitchell 



From where the o-o stirred the fire-born soil 
To a new bloom, we send to you today, 

Poet who sang so fittingly of toil, 
Aloha, friendliest word the tongue can say. 

— Clifford Franklin Gessler 



He lived, he learned to know 

Humanity 
And that Man with the Hoe. 

— Charles Far well Edson 



17 



SOME NEW YORK BOOKFELLOWS 

Reflected in his verse, as in his face, 
Is power and is glory and is grace. 

— William Griffith 



His years are as a tree, with leaves of truth, 
With fruit of beauty, ripely russet- red, 

With roots struck deep into the soil of youth 
And on God's living waters ever fed. 

— Faith Baldwin 



Poet of the high place, 

All that our hearts would say, 

Our pens but dimly trace. 
Hail to thy natal day! 

— Idella Janes Harrison 



The years walk gaily side by side with you, 
And each one, as it greets you, takes your hand 
And whispers, "Comrade, you will understand, 

I bring you only what is kind and true." 

— Marion Couthouy Smith 



If in that far home-town beyond the skies 

All men must ply some trade to find heaven sweet, 

Yours be the joy to fashion, kind and wise, 
The Shoes of Happiness for earth-worn feet. 

— Ethel Feuerlicht 



18 



Seventy and twenty are fifty years apart, 
But he has youth eternal who bears a singing heart, 
Twenty years or seventy — 'tis all the same to one 
Whose heart runs up the Hills of Dawn to greet the rising 

— Theodosia Garrison 



The Bugle Blown At Dawn 

While we toiled in the cruel dark, 

You found the splendor of the height; 

You are a bugle blown at dawn, 
Waking your brother in the light. 

— Clement Wood 



19 



FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS 

Time, always writing, sees no trace 
Of all he writes on Markham's face. 
On Markham's face he writes in vain : 
Apollo rubs it out again. 

— Edwin Arlington Robinson 



Great memories garland this fair April day 
When Shakespeare came and Wordsworth went away; 
This day, elect for precious death and birth, 
Brought Markham's brother-smile to sweeten earth. 

— Helen Gray Cone 



Hail we his hoar-headed prime, at the peak of his pride 

stands the poet; 
Wisdom more mellow than wine, faith that is finer than 

g ° ' — Babette Deutsch 



Leonine spirit, proclaiming the morning! 
Awed not by enemies, heeding no warning, 
Sing thou man's triumphs, scorning 
His backslidings. 

— Miles M. Dawson 

May Life in turn bestow upon you duly 

That happiness your honored presence brings 
To other souls, and that content, — for truly 
She holds within her hands few better things. 

— Antoinette DeCourcey Patterson 

20 



Once, on a Western coast, where the winds and the sea 

are wild, 
The gods leaned down and blessed a new-born wonder 

child. 
They gave him the stuff of dreams, the gift of iron song, 
A voice that would cry unafraid in the face of the world's 

deep wrong; 
And they filled his heart with a sense of pity and pain 

for the poor — 
He sang, and the whole world listened; he sang — and 

his songs shall endure. 

— Charles Hanson Towne 



The Years, like torches, flare and fade, 
And most things pass, and most things die, 

But beauty, by the poet made, 
Links century with century. 

— HlLDEGARDE HAWTHORNE 



Hail! Mighty singer of celestial song! 
You walk in beauty through the crowded throng, 
Beloved of all mankind; your voice shall be 
Deathless as music in eternity. 

— Blanche Shoemaker Wagstaff 



We would remember and forget — 

Forget old Time today; 
Remember you are with us yet, 

To cheer us on our way. 

— Elizabeth Crighton 



21 



SOME NEW ENGLAND GREETINGS 

The spirit weaveth wings 

From earth's few, fragile years, 

For what far journeyings 

Beyond what flaming spheres! 

— Katharine Lee Bates 



To reach the height of seventy years that shine 

Upon rich fruitage of a gift divine, 

Is heritage enough for any man 

To feel that he has justified God's plan. 

— Ruth Bassett 



Strong Saxon English builds our Markham's verse; 

It rolls with fine sonorous organ-power; 
It holds a volume in a couplet terse; 

'Tis not ephemeral, like a pretty flower. 

— Nathan Haskell Dole 



My verse is like a tiny fire of spills 

That burns behind the bars, 
The Priest of Beauty stands upon the hills 

And makes his song of stars. 

— Claribel Weeks Avery 



22 



When the white haired poet counts his years 
He counts the songs that he has sung, 

Then sings again to greet the dawn, 
Because his heart is young. 

— Walter Pritchard Eaton 



There's one Edwin Markham, the Man with the Hoe; 
Through life's fertile furrows he weeded his row, 
And harvested song that the future may know 
That the hoe'll be to Markham what the raven's to Poe! 
— William Stanley Braithwaite 



23 



SONGS FROM THE SOUTHLAND 

Genius, passing on her way, 
Paused where a new-born infant lay, 
And gently with her fingertips 
She touched the child upon the lips. 

— Owen P. White 



Out of your manly heart a brutal wrong 
Wrung that compassionate foreboding song. 
Seventy years! Your song in seventy more 
Will have burnt out our shame from crust to core. 

— Albert Edmund Trombly 



Though not for me to bend the knee 

To potentates and kings, 
Yet glad enow I lowly bow 

When Edwin Markham sings. 

— William Thornton Whitsett 



Dear Master, though I may not come today 
And at your feet learn from your wisdom gray; 
Yet in the name of all who dream and sing, 
The love and homage of the craft I bring. 

— Edwin Carlile Litsey 



As long as men shall toil 

His honored name will be 
Wreathed with the laurel bright 

Of immortality. 

— Mary Tarver Carroll 

24 



This pilgrim-poet shall not quench his thirst 
From fragile goblet rilled with purple wine; 

His cup God shaped where singing waters burst 
In grottoed coolness, 'mid wild columbine. 

— Elia W. Peattie 






25 



HERE ARE VIRGINIANS 

The great ones come with laurel and with bay 
To greet a Master crowned with fruitful years. 
In my small garden but one flower appears; — 

It is rosemary that I send today. 

— Josephine Johnson 



Magician! By the power of your word 

A humble hoe became a flaming sword; 

It smites us — fools, kings, cowards — to our knees, 

Wounded with shame for our iniquities. 

— Mary Sinton Leitch 



You were no careless jester with the muse, 
Your Pegasus no mere high-prancing steed, 

To plowman's work you bound his mighty thews 
For ages long to serve the poor man's need. 

— Elizabeth Mac Veagh 



Like his own west country, 

Staunch and free he stands, 
And holds a nation's lyric life 

Within his kindly hands. 

— Virginia Taylor McCormick 



Here's to friend Markham, a man among men, 
Whose years are the Biblical threescore and ten, 
May he garner four-score, and a few decades more, 
Enjoying the laurels achieved by his pen. 

— David Irving Janes 
26 



The poet, author, friend, 

With outstretched hands we meet you, 

With loving hearts we greet you 
And best of wishes send. 

— By a Lady of Eighty 



So many songs are of your weaving, 
And some are gold and some are red, 

Some are for gladness, some for grieving; 
You bid us choose — bitter or sweet — 

The dream? The bread? — 
Poppy or wheat? - 



— John R. Moreland 



27 



SUNG WITH A SMILE 

Of Edwin by Edmund 

Bowed by the weight of "Centuries" he stands, 
"Smart Sets" of "Nations" also in his hands, 
And reads the ponderous praise which shall be said 
Of Edwin Markham after he is dead. 

— Edmund Vance Cooke 



Howdy, you ole Son of a Gun, 

I'm sure plumb glad to greet yer 
An' I sure hopes when you'r one-naught-one 

We'll meet again an' eat yer. 

— Orville Leonard 



With this great truth a hit you've scored ; — 
The hoe is mightier than the sword. 
And this again you've made us know; — 
The man is mightier than the hoe. 

— George Steele Seymour 



At the Birthday Office 

A birthday? For you, sir? I say now! My word! 

Don't you think, on the square, sir, it's rather absurd 

For a blooming immortal with truth on his tongue 

To claim that he's growing — Well, take it! Write 

"yowrag-." _ 

■ — Richard R. Kirk 



28 



Come with all jollity and joys! 

Take cares outside and park 'em. 
Let's celebrate the Birthday Boys; 

Bill Shakespeare and Eddy Markham. 

— Anne Higginson Spicer 






29 



JUST OURSELVES 

He ploughs the fields and turning up the earth 
Out of the muck and dark brings God to birth. 

— Louise Ayres Garnett 

With vision keen, with noble purpose thou 

Hast stressed the Age's wrongs in purple phrase; 

With much concern, the smug complacent now 
Harkens in fear to thy disturbing lays. 

— Wallace Bruce Amsbary 

Evening 

Hope guards the gates of sunrise, Faith kneels adown the 

west, 

When floats thro' sunset's glories, largesse of calm and rest 

Of eventide, 

And even's star 

Shines tranquil o'er the harbor-side, 

The furled sail, the lulling tide, 

The beaten spar. _ n TT 

— E. Sewell Hill 

Untiring minstrel of our social need, 
\ With message strong 

To hearten souls oppressed, and lives that bleed, 
Bowed down by wrong. 

We greet you as the herald of a hope, 

Since dawn began, 
Urgent, inspiring, matchless in its scope, — 

The brotherhood of man. 

— Charles R. Wakeley 

30 



In words not many, thoughts few if any, 
I'm uttering now what little I can, 

Heaven gild ye, God yield ye, 

O Poet that sings to the heart of man! 

— Emma Kenyon Parrish 



You have no thought for lords and kings, 

Disdaining caste and clan; 
You gave conviction rhythmic wings 

And challenged Earth for Man. 

— Thomas Curtis Clark 



The gold and crimson sun across the sea, 
The morning with its glorifying breath, 

The surging forth of Love, Fraternity, 

The Man victorious over Time and Death. 

— Louis James Block 



Beauty he saw and seized, 

And in his lines confined; 
So shall the world be pleased 

His name to beauty bind. 

— Henry Dumont 



A Master mind; a singer's soul, 

Whose verse stirs hearts the good to win. 
The world will crown with laurel wreath, 
The pen that points the whole world kin. 

— D. J. Donovan 



31 



His Hoe and Yours 

Ten thousand eyes ere yours beheld him lean 
Upon his hoe, and looking no more knew; 

But you dug deep and with an edge most keen, — 
Justice and brotherhood behind you grew. 

— William E. Barton 



What glass can tell the sands that flow 

Through years and days of joyous giving? 

Only the true in heart can know 
That but the loving are the living. 

— Minna Mathison 



Baptismal drop of genius, wisdom's tear, 
Man's benediction, beauty's chastened flame, 

And all the vanished snows of yesteryear, 

White poet, weave to-day your crown of fame! 

— Vincent Starrett 



O Seer, who sees the great eternal plan 
Of peace on earth to all the nations free, 

Who dreams and prays the brotherhood of man, 
And Light across the Aprils yet to be. 

Poet and prophet from the Golden Gate, 

That swings the world in from the Sunset Sea, 
Who champions labor with a love so great, 
It circles all the world: 

We welcome Thee. 
— Emma Playter Seabury 



32 



FROM ALL ARO UND 

Here is the love I love to send, 
With all my heart I greet you thus, 

Dear friend who has the world for friend, 
Your birthday is your gift to us. 

— Zona Gale 



May songs thrill your heart with each morning's glow, 
And peace fill your soul when the sunsets go. 

— Clara Catherine Prince 



May beauty of a dream of Brotherhood 
Still light thy path uncounted years apart, 

A torch revealing happiness and good 

To all men here, Great Understanding Heart! 
— Myrtella Southerland 



There is no age to thought. 

The years but open up new trails. 

And some there be who follow, some who lead — 

A leader thou! _ 

— Jean Palmer Nye 



Dear poet friend, an April too I chose 
To slip into this world of verse and prose; 
And singing here beneath your stately tree, 
My song shall celebrate your jubilee. 

—John Kearns 



33 



If "to grow old in Heaven is to grow young," 
As bard and sage have sung; 
This day that marks your birth 
Proclaims a Heaven on Earth. 

— Pauline Florence Brower 



Shakespeare's April, Shakespeare's day, 
Launched you on your singing way; 
And today your valiant mirth, 
Like April's sun, renews our earth. 

— Lydia Avery Coonley Ward 



Speaking me face to face — no never — 
But height to height and depth to depth — forever! 

— Bertha Avery 



You made a gallant truce with Time 

And flung it to the breeze — 
To waft your galaxy in rhyme 

Spanning two centuries. 

— Marie Tello Phillips 



Entering the Harbor 

Pilot of a white-sailed ship 

On life's uncharted sea; 
God your Captain; on the prow 

A winged Victory. 

— Whitelaw Saunders 



34 






As peasants, bowed in wordless prayer 

When drifts the Angelus at even ; 
We smaller ones stand hushed today, 

Before the song your heart has given! 

— Jay G. Sigmund 

Man, out of the West! 

Man, out of the loins of the tender and glowing West! 

Thou, for our honor and glory and strength — 

We greet thee ! T -, _ 

b — Josephine Craven Chandler 

Heart throbs and fire and sunset gleams 

You weave into a song, 

And all the world lays down its dreams 

To listen long. „ 

& — Rebecca Helman 



Unbowed by seven decades straight he stands 
And passes on to youth the torch of flame; 

The homage of our words, our hearts, our hands 
We offer now to Edwin Markham's name. 

— M. V. P. Hazelton 



The years are only rocks, on which he scales 
The heights. From each, his searching eye unveils 
New sweeps of earth whereon his brothers tread; 
New glories in God's heavens overhead. 

— Joseph Mills Hanson 



35 



On Returning Edwin Markham's Gold Spectacles 

I send you back your crystal glasses 
In which the golden vision passes. 
O, would we wore those magic rings 
Thro' which to see the heart of things! 

— John Jerome Rooney 



To Edwin Markham 

On meeting him at the California Market with 
Albert Bender 

Down from spaces I had come, from the Orient, the sea, 

Down to the tallest offices on earth. . . 
But, close to the Golden Gate, a poet greeted me 

With plains of wisdom and with peaks of mirth. 

— Witter Bynner 



Yea, surely, he who chose to come to earth 
Upon the date of Master Shakespeare's birth 
Could be no less than what he is this morn — 
Poet beloved, unto the purple born. 

Hail! O Singer, our hearts are yours today; 
Our little fames, like weeds, shall pass away, 
But yours, as great and green as Ygdrasil, 
Fills earth with loveliness — and long shall fill. 

Three score years and ten ! This means naught to one 
Whose works, like marble temples in the sun, 
Stand forth at noon in flawless lines of white, 
And charm the everlasting stars at night. 

— Charles G. Blanden 



36 



The Sword 

To E. M., after reading "The Man with the Hoe" 

Over the moiling jungle of the world, God frowned — 
Beholding the broken millions bowed upon the ground, 
The sunken-eyes, and those with ageless sorrows numb, — 
The predatory few, the driven dumb. 

Splendid His wrath: behind a thundering fusillade, 
From a flapping scabbard of the clouds He flashed a blade ; 
And lunging His lightning-jagged sword of mighty girth 
Across the dark, He plunged it in the earth. 

Oh, beautiful the leafy tapestries of night, 
The cheery bough, the darkling swallow in its flight; 
More beautiful the flaming wrath that makes men free 
To look upon the bird, the bough, the tree. 

— Lew Sarett 



37 



Democracy's great Champion, brave and bold, 
Flung out his thunder-song across the years, 
Calling the world to reckoning for tears 
The toiler wept in heat and rain and cold. 
The Shepherd of the fields of lyric gold 
For Song's proud feet prepared a path that cheered 
Love-brooding youth, grief-stricken age, and reared 
For men his mount of beauty, fold on fold. 

Beloved Master, skilled in flaming line, — 
Seeker and shaper of the dream divine, — 
Your help has eased the burden of the world, 
Where Right's poor, trampled banners lie unfurled; 
You lifted high Love's cup of deathless youth, 
With hands that knew the white-winged bird of truth. 

— J. Corson Miller 



38 






Down the Line 

Seventy years — a mystic phrase. 

The heart has thronged with meanings — 

Completion, judgment, retrospect 

Are in it — a questioning of the ways 

The soul has come, the forces that direct; 

A wonder at the chances that spelt fate 

Upon one's own blind path, 

And down obliterated roads 

Where dim ancestral figures bore our loads. 

Reading, O poet, the story of your house, 

A hundred times your type is there, 

That Apollonian face and air, 

That cry for justice, that insistent drearn 

Of life more full and fair. 

I feel a host behind you down the years, 

A tempo in their blood that beats in yours, 

Something they dowered you with of high and fine 

That still in you endures. 

Today I see them down the centuries stand 

Each with importunate hand 

Upon the shoulder of the next ahead, 

Unseen, deflecting you to left or right, 

Unnoted, giving rhythm to your step, 

Unheard, giving you your power of words to smite, 

Uplooking, giving your eyes 

That large and fearless outlook toward the skies. 

But hold, I hear you say, 

What of the hap of circumstance to sway, 

The pull of some strange star to swerve 

The course; the spell of books whose soul 

Goes into ours? Ah true, these things may curve 

39 



Man's path — advance his soul, delay, 

Yet never alone he picks the road he tries. 

We beckon, or thrust back, the good 

The wrong, because of olden evil forsworn, 

Or good upheld, while we were yet unborn — 

Because of will that stood, 

Or failed, long since, and lies 

Coiled up in us today, 

Augmented, lessened on the way. 

They had a will to goodness, that old breed ; 
And what of you sprung from their seed — 
A scholar finding books as close as friends, 
Mankind's all-lover who least of these defends, 
A thinker most at home in things unseen, 
An artist feeling beauty a pain that stings, 
A poet wondering at all human things, — 
You, blending two old lines in one, glean 
Best of both, you emphasize 
The justice they for centuries claimed. 
The order and the beauty they have named, 
You sound in clearer voice, 
You frame with sharper choice. 

You spoke the word that is the century's key 

Crying the world unsafe that does not loose 

For ampler human use 

The toil-bound drudge made brute and blind 

That we may rest cultured and fine and free. 

You spoke when none were speaking, none dared speak; 

Your call went traveling on the wind 

Across the continent and the sea 

In pentecostal tongue; 

And shall be heard and sung 



40 



Until your happy trine of good 

Is safe for all — bread, beauty, brotherhood. 

— Anna Catherine Markham 






41 



Somewhat more than thirty-five years ago, Edwin 
Markham came upon a small print of Millet's celebrated 
painting, "The Man with the Hoe," and the pain of it 
filled his heart. He placed the print upon his wall and, 
looking at it, jotted down what he calls the rough "field 
notes" of his now famous poem. Four years later he 
chanced upon the original painting, and for him it be- 
came at once "the most solemnly impressive of all modern 
paintings." It came to him "wrapped around with more 
terror than the fearsome shapes of Dante." For an hour 
he stood before the painting, absorbing its majestic de- 
spair, the terrible import of its admonition. When he 
had returned to his study, in Oakland, California, he 
resurrected his "field notes," and wrote the poem as we 
know it to-day. 

The manuscript reproduced in facsimile in this bro- 
chure, is the first, the original, copy of the poem in its 
final state. The verses were published in the San Fran- 
cisco Examiner, and shortly they electrified the nation. 
They were copied far and wide, and their fame was 
known and celebrated in foreign lands. Over night, as 
it were, their author became the most talked-of poet in 
the world. The poem made him thousands of friends, 
and many critics. To-day it is one of the most famous 
poems in the English language. Whatever else he may 
write — and he has written many other notable poems, 
some of them, in the opinion of critics, better than "The 
Man with the Hoe" — Mr. Markham always will be re- 
membered as the author of that tremendous work, which 
so admirably supplements the great painting that in- 
spired it. 

— Vincent Starrett 



42 



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